You find all of your ugly meanings/
In all of the things I find beautiful/
Do you see the fall is coming?/
Come, I'm falling into you/

Peter refused to let himself look guilty—it was hard, because he felt guilty under his brother's disgusted, disproving glare, felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "For the last time, Nathan, I didn't kiss her, she kissed me."

Nathan looked ready to scream, livid with barely-contained destructive rage. "I really don't care who kissed who," he said, biting off each word. "What I want to know is why you were kissing her at all."

"I don't know," Peter said uncomfortably, looking at his hands. "She just jumped me, it wasn't my fault."

"What, did she hold a gun to your head?" he asked, knifeblade sarcastic. "Peter, we've got enough to deal with, trying to save the world and all—I do not need you running around with some skank who, may I remind you, is the enemy!"

"Would you just listen to me?" Peter shouted back. "The last thing I wanted to do was kiss that woman. I'm not fifteen years old and I'm not stupid—this isn't going to be a problem."

"You know what, I wish I could believe you!" Nathan yelled, shaking his head in a way that reminded Peter vividly of their father.

Claire poked her head into the room, mouth open to ask a question, faltering slightly when she saw the death-glowers blackening their faces. "Oh—" she said, hesitating. "Is this a bad time?"

Nathan whirled on her, throwing his hands in the air. "Yes, Claire, this is a bad time! I don't understand why you have to bother me, you already have a father! You're always in the way—you make things harder for anyone who's stupid enough to love you, because we've all got to save you all the time! Well, you know what? The saving thing? It gets really old."

Claire stared at him for a moment, paralyzed by the unwarranted onslaught, eyes bright with shocked tears—then she fled, disappearing out of the room in a patter of tennis-shoed footsteps. Peter grabbed Nathan's shoulder and jerked him around, appalled and angry enough to forget his own considerable troubles. "I can't believe you just said that to her! She's sixteen!"

Nathan swatted his hand away, tired of playing well with others, of biting his tongue in half, of being one of the good guys. "You know what, Pete? I am done."

Mr. Bennet entered the room, looking fully as furious as Nathan, ready and willing to tangle with him. "What was that?" he asked, stabbing a finger out of the room. "What did you say to my little girl?"

"Your little girl," Nathan snorted. "Your little girl. Do you really think I'm the only one she's crying about? Why don't you tell her what happened to her mom and brother, huh?"

Mr. Bennet crossed the room in three quick steps, coming nose-to-nose with Nathan. "At least I didn't just send them away when they became inconvenient," he replied coldly. "When was the last time you saw your sons? Boarding school is such a handy invention, isn't it? And what about Claire—would you have shipped her off to Massachusetts the first time she gave you a problem? It's just terrible, how your family always seems to get in your way."

Claude had wandered into the room in between blows, drawn to the yells like a spectator to a car wreck. Caught up in their own teeth-bared mêlée, neither of them noticed him until he spoke. "Hey," he shouted. "Sorry to break up your Alpha male showdown, but don't you're both getting a bit off track? Remember the New York apocalypse? Or are you too busy bickering like children to save your own lives?"

"And what would you know about that?" Mr. Bennet said cuttingly. "Thus far, your only solution seems to be running away and hiding."

"Well, excuse me for living when you so clearly wanted me dead," Claude, caught up despite himself. "If you'll recall, Bennet, the only thing I was running from was you. My point was, this is too important for the mess you're making of it—we have a plan to worry about, here."

"A plan," Nathan said disbelievingly. "A plan. Who do we think we are, the Justice League?" He pushed past Mr. Bennet and walked toward the door. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I've got a life to live and an election to win, and you're not helping with either."

"You have no idea what's at stake here, do you?" Mr. Bennet shot icily at his back. "You're simply not capable of seeing beyond your own selfish goals."

"No," Nathan turned, pulled back into battle. "No, I really try not to, and that's why I accomplish them. I thought you understood about making sacrifices."

"I'm sorry—when you spoke of sacrifices, I didn't know you meant the Aztec blood variety. I apologize for overestimating you, Mr. Petrelli; it appears that your definition of 'morally grey' doesn't quite match up with mine."

Nathan brought his hand up to his temple, struggling to be reasonable and adult, telling himself firmly that it wouldn't help anything to punch Mr. Bennet in the face. "Look," he said with his best campaign smile. "I really don't have the time or energy for this. If you have a problem, just—stick a Post-it note on my door, type me up a memo, I don't care, but don't bother me. I have enough on my plate. And you, Peter," he turned to deliver an ultimatum to his brother, but Peter wasn't sitting where he'd been before. "Peter?"

He made a quick three-sixty-degree turn, scanning the library to no avail—Peter was gone.

---

"Hey."

When Claire heard the voice behind her, she scrubbed her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, unsuccessfully trying to erase the signs of tears. Peter climbed up on the porch railing, sitting next to her and putting a steadying, comforting arm around her. Without thinking, she put her head on his shoulder, no longer caring if he saw her cry.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"You'd think I would be," she said hollowly. "I'm Miracle Girl, the indestructible wonder, right?"

"I don't think it works like that."

"You know, for a girl who can't die, I really seem to need a lot of protecting."

"Claire, you can't let yourself think about the things that Nathan said. He was really upset, he didn't mean it—"

"No, he was right," she said determinedly. "I'm so passive, all the time—I get into trouble constantly, but I can never get out of anything by myself. I'm that girl from the movies, the one who you hate because she stands around and screams while the hero takes on the world to save her. You're just thinking, 'you idiot, why don't you do something, why don't you help him?', but she never does anything but scream." She laughed bitterly. "Save the cheerleader, save the world, right? Well, maybe I should have saved myself."

Peter took hold of her shoulders and turned her so that she was facing him. "Claire, look at me," he commanded. With difficulty, she pulled her blue eyes up to him, and he locked her there with the concern and conviction in his own eyes. "You're sixteen, naturally sweet, and usually about fifty pounds lighter than anyone who attacks you. Add that to the fact that you get attacked on a ridiculously regular basis, and there isn't a person alive who could blame you for your actions. You never should have gone through any of this, and it's silly to expect yourself to respond like some kind of Supergirl. There's nothing shameful about being normal—and that means being scared, freezing up, going into shock. Weird freak show you may be, but you're still only human."

She nodded, self-assurance talked back into workable shape. "You're going after Thompson, aren't you?" she asked unexpectedly, and he pulled away from her, alarmed.

"What makes you think that?"

She gave him a watery half-smile. "You're completely transparent, Peter, you should know that by now." She nodded to the house, where they could still hear voices raised, bickering with terrible intensity. "Besides, it's pretty obvious they aren't going to get anything done, not with the global power struggle going on in there. Someone has to grab the reins, and quick."

"Fine," he admitted, hands up, "you caught me. I was going to leave right now—I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I've got Candice's ability down now, I'll be able to do it—and while I'm gone they can get over themselves."

"You're taking me with you."

"What? Absolutely not."

"Come on, Peter," she pressed. "You can't do it by yourself—you need someone to watch Thompson while you go to Linderman, for one, and there's a million other things you can't do alone. What are you going to do, take one of them?" She gestured inside as a particularly sharp remark came slicing out to them. "I need this," she told him steadily, allowing only a slight undertone of begging into her voice.

He squeezed her hand. "Okay," he said quietly. "Let's go."